View And Response: Kate O'Brien's Portrait Of Amanda Palmer

This portrait of Amanda Palmer by Kate O'Brien reminded me of a little Valentine's Day incident last year wherein I was lured into attending a "Happening" in Ft. Greene with the promise of exotic and swarthy companionship (shall we say).

The location: It was seemingly a squatted factory of the kind that was so popular Pre-9/11 with poor college students and reprobate young adults; red brick and crooked floors and exposed beams. Paintings were on the wall in a fresco style and they were poorly done, garish and ugly. There were several floors of the party and several rooms per floor and at least one corner of each floor had a makeshift bar with tiki lamps, christmas lights and cheap off-brand liquors and cans of watery, warm beer. Also on each floor was a stage whose boundaries were marked on the ground with reflective tape. Naturally, there was a band playing each stage in a different musical style. The crowd was young -- perhaps underage -- and enthusiastic in the way that young people are when they are allowed outside of the house and horny and drunk and drugged.

So the Girl I was with (who shall remain nameless) and I couldn't figure out what to do. Some of our more resilient traveling companions (the idiots that took us there) went off in search of booze or weed or both. Some of the others lingered against the furthest wall from the action in hopes that death would come swiftly and painlessly. The Girl and I looked at each other and slipped off past the throngs of sweaty, bepatchouli oiled college freshmen and we stumbled downstairs to dance. And we danced close... very, very close... to swingin' oldies and sweet soul music for what seemed like seconds but was more like hours and the room stopped spinning and our buzz wore off and we both realized that -- hey -- we were both huddled for comfort because we were fascinated by each other, true, but also because we were trying to protect each other from sweaty, bepatchouli oiled college freshmen. Time to go.

I grabbed her hand and we headed back upstairs from the room we had left hours before. As we fought up against the current of stumbling girls in awkward heels I heard the sound of a broken piano and a female voice singing in a strange affected English contralto.

"Fucking bitch thinks she's Amanda Palmer!" I turned and said to the Girl.

"What?!" She didn't hear me.

I turned back to find the exit. Of course it was Amanda Palmer playing a solo show on a broken piano on Classon Ave. with about sixty rapt post-teens sitting cross-legged on the floor like kindergarteners waiting for story time.

I turned and whispered in the girl's ear, "We need to go. Now."

DO YOU WANT THE LAMINATE?

Playing back to the 'too young to care' feelings from previous entries and offering all ages chiptune madness for all ages is Starscream -- 8-bit plink-pop for you and yours to enjoy unapologetically. Perhaps, upon hearing them, you would feel the urge to surf the willing crowd or bruise your neighbor with you hips and elbows. All of this is encouraged. One should also take special notice of the floors buckling under the strain of three classes of teenagers pogo-ing in unison and retreat to a more load-bearing part of the building; such is the urge for people with the burden of debt.



I was at the Knitting Factory last night (3/22) and continued to be rendered inert by the lack of FUN that bands seem to be having once they escape college. Everyone wants to be in a band, but no one wants to be a Rock Star. There are exceptions to every rule (Tunnel Of Love -- I'm talking to you...) but overall I yearn for showmanship; for bands to engage with the crowd; to push BACK when the pit swallows you up; to let the pit swallow you up.

To have a pit in general. I guess it's hard to dance when you're protecting your seven dollar beer. That's a serious investment these days.

If You And Your Friends Are In The Dark, You Are Hidden People.

I have to say, while I love all my friends' bands (here, Hidden People), I really, REALLY wish they'd play venues with grown up lighting design instead of, say, fucking Christmas lights (see below).



I'd much rather shoot ambient without having to ramp up the ASA all the way and open all the way wide. Fun things happen when you have enough light to shoot with without augmenting.